


though the heavens fall

by stellamayfairs



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Don't @ Me, F/F, F/M, Fifth Blight, M/M, Multi, Pre-Canon, Self-Harm, What's canon, ain't no love triangle fic, my kids as kids, part one of a never ending fic, the thedas equivalent of the bff roadtrip, yes i adjusted their ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:23:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamayfairs/pseuds/stellamayfairs
Summary: "An empire before yours, greater than yours, was toppled by a Ferelden farmgirl. Imagine what I can do to you."One might be a woman, or Ferelden; never both.She never looked back, she must not look back, lest she faltered; the moment she fell, Ferelden failed with her. She was not her own. She was no one else's. Anora Mac Tir was Ferelden, proud, hardened, wilfull and free.Ferelden did not break, and neither did she.They called her the Great Whore of Ferelden. Daughter of traitors. Notorious mistress of the king. More Orlesian than Ferelden, they called her. Dark, wild, deceitful, and dangerous. Sile Cousland loved Denerim at night. Chaos. Utter chaos. Had she been required to rule these people, superstitious peasants that they were, she had no doubt that she would loathe them; but observed with anonymity, they were a riot.  She slipped through the dark alleys, thinking that for all the blood of Andraste, she’d have all their heads on pikes inside of a month if she were Anora. It was a great fortune for everyone, really, that she was born the spare. Fergus might not have made his own bed, being the eldest, but by the Maker, she would see him lie in it.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm going to say this once and never again, Síle's name is a form of Cecelia which is approximately pronounced/Anglicized as Sheila. The accent is usually absent for convenience and I honestly have all the regrets about not just using the English spelling but here we are.]
> 
> Also. This is a long, long work and my most ambitions writing endeavor outside of my own original writing (which I may or may not be using this to escape), so many tags are eventual, though generally not added until they are foreshadowed/mentioned/imminently relevant.

It wasn’t the stillness. She could bear that. She knew little else in those uncertain days, watching, waiting for the inevitable, knowing the steps to a dance without knowing when the music was to begin, the great breath of anticipation before the final act unraveled itself.

It wasn’t the silence. Somewhere thunder rumbled. It was raining; it was always raining. For this she was grateful; the sunlight would have been too obscene, too cruel. If the sun broke through, she would be undone. She prayed the storm, at least, would not abandon her.

The world was gray, pale, colorless; the light from the candle that glowed on her nightstand was terrible in its way, casting shadows on her face, casting light where it didn’t belong.

Velanna had known the truth long ago.

The creators were banished, the shem’s Maker was gone.

They were alone. Utterly and completely alone.

Waves crashed on the shores of Amaranthine, bringing the end nearer. Any day now. Any second.

And so she waited. Closed her eyes. Extended her hand above the flame and felt it warm her skin.

Watched, waited, unflinching, unerring.

_ In peace, vigilance. _

The corners of her mouth twitched at the irony.

Ah, fate, with its fiendish designs, its vicious humor.

She lowered her fingers and felt her searing flesh, the sickening ghost of a funeral pyre filling her nostrils, her skin bubbling, agony pulsing through her with the blood roaring in her ears.

How long had it been?

She drew her hand back as her fingertips blackened. Closed her eyes and curled her hand into a fist, biting her lip until she tasted blood. She must not sleep. She must not laugh, must not become hysterical, must not lose herself. It was all she had left to lose.

She relaxed her shoulders and opened her palm, the charred flesh restored without a trace of a wound.

She allowed herself to smile. Well. Perhaps not all she had left.

Her eyes drifted to the amulet that sat on the table before her.

She had worn an amulet once, the vial of blood to remind her of those who had sacrificed all, those who had walked her path. Not anymore. That had been an illusion; that path wasn’t hers.

It was then that she heard it.

The cry of the raven.

Of course it would come to this. Fool she had been not to realize it sooner.

Dirthamen.

She rose to her feet and moved towards the window. 

Keeper of secrets, keeper of whispers, keeper of knowledge.

_ “You are lost, and soon you shall fade…” _

Her hand extended into the mist, into the gray, out of Vigil’s Keep.

The raven brought her one message, the one she had anticipated.

It’s time.

She whirled from the window, her arms flung wide, the door across the room swinging open with a crash, the light on the nightstand extinguishing. She strode towards the hall. Halted.

Sentimental fool.

She spun, in spite of herself, and grabbed the amulet, hanging it around her neck like an executioner’s noose. Exactly what it was.

Wasted seconds. Seconds were all she had.

She flew out into the hall, torches blowing out as she passed, and flung herself at the last door by the back staircase. The closest to escape.

The room’s sole occupant shot up in bed as the door banged open, dressed beneath the tangled sheets, her hair falling wildly across her face, her eyes gaping stupidly, lips parted as if in shock.

“Time to fly, little Hawke.”

Velanna took the staff from beside the doorway and flung it at the awakened dreamer, who had risen to her knees and was looking wildly about her. Skittish doe, Velanna thought grimly to herself. Never had a creature been more unsuitably named.

“They’re here?” Bethany Hawke whispered.

Velanna, too preoccupied to suitably rebuke her, gave a quick nod. “Go.”

“But what about --”  
“I’ll distract them. Go.” Velanna grabbed her arm and threw her out into the hallway. Bethany caught herself, shakily leaning against the wall, and gave Velanna a nod of acknowledgement. Her mouth was pressed into a tight line, her lips no longer quivering, but her eyes were wide, filled with terror.

She turned without another word and hurried down the spiral staircase that led out of the fortress.

Velanna stood in the empty halls, illuminated in flashes by the lightning outside, and felt suddenly paralyzed. So much history. So much lost. So much to protect.

The Amaranthine Seven. Indestructible. Immortal.

Iconoclast.

A shudder ran through her body. She allowed herself to pause, to breathe. Bethany would have reached courtyard by now. She had time.

She walked down the length of the hall, her fingers brushing the cold stone as she walked.

She closed her eyes. She felt the lyrium that coursed through her veins, slowly inhaled, and willed the wind to bend to her. She heard the howling, the sudden force blowing open every door in the keep, extinguishing every flame. The beginnings of a smile curled at her lips.

Come. Yes, come to us now, bring your justice, bring your rage, bring your justice and your flaming sword.

The Tevinter motto she had come across so many times, read so many times, and yet never understood.

_ Let justice be done, though the heavens fall. _

Her eyes remain closed as she glided down the hall she had walked so many times before, walked now for the last time. She stepped around the corpses that lined the floor, clad in blue and grey, soaked with red. Her hand curled into a fist and slowly released, the last of the Ferelden wardens bursting into flames.

She made her way down the stairs, stepped through the throne room, the hearth still burning, clinging to life. No more. She passed by it, sighed as it froze. It was too late for regrets.

The steps where Anora had lain, having drunk too much Scotch, her golden hair fanned out around her, hands covering her rosy cheeks, her laugh echoing through the great hall. Here the queen of Ferelden had grabbed Nathaniel’s arm, eyes wide, and spoken in the voice of a conspiratorial delinquent, “my father will never hear of this.”

Here Anders had staggered towards his chamber, arms overflowing with Sigrun’s various stolen trinkets, the boon of the only card game he ever won. Velanna still didn’t know how he’d done it.

Here Nathaniel had busted his grandfather’s lute over the hearth, because no family heirloom was worth enduring another drunken performance from Anders.

Here Fergus had raised a toast to the generation of the Dragon Age, the last of their names, the bringers of the Golden Age. Here the last of the Couslands, the last Theirin, the last Howes, the last daughter of the Mac Tirs raised had clinked their glasses, wine spilling over the rims, staining the rug beneath their feet, the rug Velanna walked across now. It was stained now with a red deeper than wine.

Here Oghren had pulled off Justice’s finger after an arm wrestling match by mistake. It had all seemed very hilarious to the men at the time.

And here, at last, here was where Justice grabbed her by the shoulders, bony fingers struggling to keep their grip, torn flesh hanging from the hideous empty eye socket.

_ Think of what we could accomplish. _

She’d called him foolish at the time. She’d smacked the rotting hand away, disgusted. And yet still, after all that had happened, the thought would not leave her; it should have been her. It should have been her.

Too late.

She raised her arms slowly, the doors creaking open, and summoned the forces that were as she willed. The wind whipped at her face, the cold rain stinging her flesh painfully, her tears freezing on her face. For this, all for this. Tainted, plagued, maimed.

Damned.

Her fingers trembled as she lowered herself to her knees. She closed her eyes and dug her nails into her palms. The trees around her stirred; the statue of Andraste’s foundations cracked; roots tore at the earth.

Her nails bit deeper into her flesh, breaking the skin; blood dripped through her fists.

The trees shook, quaked, moaned. The ground broke. The forest danced, slowly, menacingly, awakening to her; lightning flashed and set fire to their limbs; Velanna panted, bled, whispered frantically under her breath. She couldn't stop if she wanted to. Not now.

Her fingers extended, blood running down from her palms to their tips, and began to trace on the stone steps of the keep. This place, where peasants once stood and pleaded for bread, where Oghren fainted in a pool of his own blood, where they dragged Sile off.

Sile.

The amulet around her neck grew heavy, a weight, pulling her down, sinking her, drowning her.

Fire raged; the sky unleashed its floods; electricity coursed through the air; blood dripped from her fingers.

Her eyes darted to the gallows and pleaded, silently, fruitlessly, for Bethany to hurry.

Her head was light. Blood loss. No; the bleeding had stopped. It wasn’t enough.

She bore her teeth, the wind tearing at her hair, the rain cold on her face, streaming down with the tears that burned her eyes; she slowly lifted her arm up to her lips, trembling.

_ In war, victory. _

At any cost. Any cost. Any --

She looked up sharply, a shock running through her body. They were here.

Et pereat mundus.

She sank her teeth into her arm. Screamed in pain. She tore the flesh away and rose slowly to her feet, defiantly, deliberately. She pushed back her shoulders, raised her chin, spread her arms before her.

The templars approached to see the figure standing before them, blood dripping from her mouth, her lips pulled back in a red snarl, the wind and rain whipping at her face, her hair, her clothes. She was beautiful. She was terrible. A monster they wanted, a monster they got.

She saw their eyes. They were frightened.

She needed them frightened.

“What else?” she screamed, above the wind, above the rain, above the rumble of the earth, the swaying of the trees.  “What else do you want?”

“Melificar!”

She felt the force of the templar’s cleanse before she saw the speaker, her mind burning, her insides momentarily paralyzed. She gasped in for breath, struggled to fight the numbness. Struggled to push back. She was going to faint. Her teeth gritted. Don’t let them see you flinch. Anything else.

She gripped the stone wall of the fortress behind her, breathing raggedly, eyes wildly searching for the assaulter; only one of them, one imbecile who hadn’t yet realized that they needed her. Her mind pushed back against the invisible shield; the banner they carried bearing the chantry symbol burst into flames.

The templar who had been holding it yelped and dropped it, the fire catching at their feet. Two of them frantically cleansed the spell; the one nearest to her whirled, drawing his sword. She was grinning, blood still dripping from her teeth. Fierce, terrible, an animal.

She might have been a Keeper, once. She might have been a hero.

Another time, another life.

She felt the rage coursing through her veins, the blood pulsing through the wound on her arm.

Let them feel it; let them suffer. For all they had taken from her, for the souls they condemned.

For every family she had ever known.

They took it all.

Curling fingers. Let their blood boil. Let them know what it was to be consumed by a fire that had ignited long before they were born.

She sighed and closed her eyes; she was nearing sweet delirium now. The worst for her was over.

She heard their screams. Her eyes fluttered open to see them on their knees. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled.

She was smiling now.

“Halt!” A man from the back of the hoard stepped forward. He wore no helmet. Not a Seeker; not a lyrium deprived husk, either. She was puzzled enough by his appearance to loosen her grip; the gasping templar’s hands went to their throat, heaving great labored sighs, the red draining down from their faces.

“We come on behalf of Divine Justinia. I seek only information.”

Velanna narrowed her eyes. “You won’t find any.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “I have been charged in seeking the assistance of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden --”

“I am no warden.”

“No?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you not Velanna, one of the Amaranthine wardens who served under Sile Cousland?”

“Don’t say her name,” she hissed.

“But you did swear the --”

“I swore an oath to her.” Her voice rose in hysteria. “No one else!”

“I understand.” He took a step forward. 

Velanna opened a palm, a flame flickering in warning. “No closer!”

“All right.” He held up both his hands, his tone sickening, patronizing. She wanted to call up the roots under the ground he tread to strangle him. Not yet. “We wish to find her.”  
Velanna folded her arms and stared at them. “She isn’t here.”

“We fear for her safety.”

She snorted gracelessly. “Do you think me vapid?”  
“We have reason to believe that the disappearance of Sile Cousland is related to the incident in Kirkwall.”

Velanna’s blood ran cold. “She wasn’t there.”

“We are not implicating her,” the man said quickly. “We believe she can be of great help.”

Velanna began to laugh then, a shrill, feverish sound that bubbled up in her chest, threatening to strangle her, bursting forth in torrents. “You think she would help the chantry? After all that you’ve done?”  
“What happened in Kirkwall --”

“If you’re so concerned about Kirkwall,” Velanna cried, “why don’t you seek answers there?”

“We have people there,” he said. “We have a source we believe can enlighten us as to the location of the Champion.”  
“Run to your source, then,” Velanna sniffed. “You’ll find no help here.”  
The man shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Our source is...unreliable.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Mythal curse them, they’d taken the bloody dwarf.

She folded her arms. “I don’t know where Sile Cousland is.”

“We have reason to believe otherwise.”  
He stepped forward again. The buzzing in her ears returned. Someone must have cracked.

“You are the last person to see Sile Cousaland in Ferelden, are you not?”  
“What have you done?” she asked, realization hitting her in the stomach, taking the air from her lungs. There was no response. She shrieked again, “What have you _done_?”  
She hadn’t believed it when she’d first heard the rumblings of an inquisition.

So it had come to this, after all.

“I cannot stress the importance of your cooperation,” the man continued, his pretense of friendship rapidly cracking. “Ferelden’s insubordination has been of great concern to the Chantry. We don’t wish to be driven to drastic measures --”  
Her head was spinning. An Exalted March. They were threatening a bloody Exalted March.

She swayed on her feet. The hysteria rose in her throat again, and she collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. She doubled over, clamping a hand over her mouth, attempting to smother herself. It was futile.

“You insolent heathen --” one of the men strode forward, sword in hand. Their diplomat did not make an effort to dissuade him this time.

“What could possibly be funny?” The man in the front asked, frowning.

“You’re finished,” she seethed through her teeth. “You’re done. The Chantry -- is crumbling --”  
The blow landed on the side of her face, knocking her to her side.

She spit out a stream of blood and grinned. “You’re desperate.”  
He kicked her this time; she could feel her ribs snapping. She doubled over, gritting her teeth. She raised her eyes to glare at the lackeys. Pathetic.

“You’re going to fall,” she rasped. “Like the Tevinter Imperium before you.”

Another kick between the ribs.

“Bring her in,” one of the men ordered. “It’ll take awhile to break this one.”  
She eyed the sword in the nearest Templar’s hand. She’d known this could happen.

She would run herself through before she would be taken by the Chantry. 

There was a split second as the templar leaned down; she reached for the sword with her hands. The blade cut deep into her bleeding palms. Blood. Yes, there was still enough --

She summoned the last remaining willpower in her body. The blood rose from her skin, swirled, and knocked her captors back. She dragged herself towards where the blade fell, her hand on her broken chest, her hand reaching out desperately, agonizingly.

A templar boot crushed her hand. She screamed out in pain.

But the sound she heard was not her scream.

The scent of burning flesh knocked her back.

Her eyes rose up to the shrieking templar before her, his skin blistering under the flames.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“You idiot!” she attempted to shriek, but the pain was excruciating. She croaked and spit out another mouthful of blood instead.

“I couldn’t leave you,” Bethany’s voice was suddenly beside her. “I’m not going to lose anyone else.”

Nate. You fucking bastard. You were supposed to stop her.  
“You’ll die,” Velanna rasped between breaths, “you absolute cretin.”

Bethany laughed then, a sound she hadn’t heard since the girl had fled Kirkwall with Nate. “Carver used to call me that.”

The templars were regianing themselves; magic was useless now. Bethany sank to her knees in resignation.

“Kill them!”

“No, you idiot, that’s Bethany Hawke --”

Bethany lay down beside Velanna then and grabbed her unbroken hand, squeezing it.

“We’re already dead, remember?” she whispered.

Velanna only managed a slight nod.

There was a sudden commotion behind them; Bethany sat bolt upright. The sound of an arrow whizzing through the air; a templar fell down in Velanna’s line of sight, pierced straight through the eye. She excruciatingly rolled her head to the other side, wincing at the brain matter that splattered on her face with the second felled templar.

The diplomat staggered forward, clutching his throat, gurgling blood, he fell face forward onto the earth.

A hooded figure stood over him, a bloodied knife in hand.

“You,” Bethany said, her eyes widening.

The hood fell back, exposing the red hair beneath. Leliana’s eyes were grim, her mouth compressed into a thin line.

“We’re out of time.”


	2. The Reckless Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this is what we’ve come to, lost at the edge of the world while history rages past us? What do we know of the glory of kings, of the logic of masters, of the suffrage of slaves? We are the hunters, we are the free, we are the reckless and wild and privileged.  
> To look at the cruel and savage and unforgiving land before us, and know that it is ours, ours, and it shall never again be taken from us; it is for us that our forefathers fought and bled and died, it is for us that the Maker himself shall bend his will.  
> We are the sons and daughters of legends.  
> And yet, there was a time when the kingdom was confined to the untamed forests, the edge of the world the treacherous Amaranthine coast.  
> But all the same, it was ours.  
> Naive times, ignorant times, foolhardy and breathless and innocent.  
> The perfect storm brewed, and we stood at its brink and called it our domain; we loved the waves that crashed on the rocks and the wind on our skin, toppling us from where we stood, pulling us into a dizzying frenzy. In love with the chaos with no thought of the wreckage a hurricane brings.

_So, this is what we’ve come to, lost at the edge of the world while history rages past us? What do we know of the glory of kings, of the logic of masters, of the suffrage of slaves? We are the hunters, we are the free, we are the reckless and wild and privileged._

_To look at the cruel and savage and unforgiving land before us, and know that it is ours, ours, and it shall never again be taken from us; it is for us that our forefathers fought and bled and died, it is for us that the Maker himself shall bend his will._

_We are the sons and daughters of legends._

_And yet, there was a time when the kingdom was confined to the untamed forests, the edge of the world the treacherous Amaranthine coast._

_But all the same, it was ours._

_Naive times, ignorant times, foolhardy and breathless and innocent._

_The luxury afforded to this generation born into a liberated Ferelden, the children of nobles with their names etched into history books before their first steps, before their first words. Destined for greatness before greatness was a concept they could fathom._

_This our glory, this our curse, this our downfall._

_If only we’d been born to commoners._

_If only we had been born in another time._

_If only we had not been born of the mythic heroes of legend, who cast shadows we frantically tried to outgrow, to outrun._

_The perfect storm brewed, and we stood at its brink and called it our domain; we loved the waves that crashed on the rocks and the wind on our skin, toppling us from where we stood, pulling us into a dizzying frenzy. In love with the chaos with no thought of the wreckage a hurricane brings._

_The edge of the world, the edge of an era._

_Ours is the Dragon Age._

_Watch us rise._

i.

Eleanor Cousland fanned herself and squinted into the sun, desperate for the sweet reprieve of a few dozen drinks or a sword through her throat.

In those days, despite the reckless seas -- oh, how they beckoned -- and the intemperant winds, Amaranthine was always sultry in the summer with a perfectly delicious composite of salty air and a merciless sun. For the higher society of Ferelden (the existence of which was largely disputed among Orlesians, though it was accepted as a convenient term for the less barbaric of the barbarians), this meant salons and tournaments and warm evenings in the council chambers fueled by wine, blessedly imported; the traders' voyages were mild more often than not in that season.

Imports, though bountiful, were purchased with all the discretion of insidious love affairs, and giddily used with the same air; Rowan herself had once glanced over her shoulder at the servants serving coffee, leaned forward conspiritally, and whispered through a fiendish grin, "it's Antivan."

The ships had brought more than goods that year; there was the matter of the trader’s daughter, chiefly for whom's benefit Eleanor was seated there, under the sweltering sun, attempting to manage just this one afternoon as a conventionally respectable lady. They could hardly permit her to go running off and perishing in the Ferelden woods, and no more prevent their sons and daughters from vanishing into it at every chance, so alternative company was needed.

So Eleanor sat on the terrace, drinking the arlessa’s repulsive tea and counting down every man she’d ever killed to numb her mind, resenting her charge in spite of herself. If the girl had any notions of being whisked away by barbarians, she didn’t show it. She showed little, in fact, a tangle of long brown limbs and smooth black hair, pouting lips and downcast eyes. Oriana’s opinion of her hosts was indecipherable, and Sile had hissed into Eleanor’s ear on more than one occasion that she was almost certainly a Crow sent to poison them and take the Highever coast for trade, and while Eleanor had chastised her for this, she would be lying if she didn’t find the notion both plausible and enormously preferable to the alternative; the girl’s smiles were too easily plied, her compliments too ready, her demeanor too amicable. On a rational level, she knew that this meant that the girl was merely well behaved, which was hardly a fault, but her disposition was so unlike that of Eleanor’s own children that it seemed it really ought to be.

The girl was beautiful, and well mannered enough, but even after a month of hosting her, the only thing Eleanor could ascertain about her was her admiration for Fergus. Poor darling. Best to steer her away from him; in the matters of chasing skirts, he and his sister were equally adept, something Bryce and Eleanor had long ago decided to turn a blind eye to, in no small part as a result of the one disastrous time they admonished their children for being indiscreet.

Sile had arched her eyebrow and asked, “and has there yet been a bawdy song written about my exploits, darling mother dear?”  
There was very little to be said to this.

If she never heard of the bloody Solider & the Seawolf again, that would be splendid.

A cloud cover would also be welcomed, truthfully. The beginnings of sweat formed at Eleanor’s brow.

Of the three ladies on the terrace, only one took no precautions against the sun, the very one whose complexion most demanded it; her golden hair coiffed at the base of her neck, her head uncovered, her feet bare and exposed, legs folded up around her, seemingly oblivious to anything but the book in her hands. The only indication that she had other plans for her day were the riding dress she wore, the bow leaning against her chair, a sheathed sword on the table beside her.

Anora Mac Tir had not come out that afternoon to sit idly and drink tea.

“Darling,” Eleanor finally said, setting down her fan, “perhaps you’d like to join the others?”  
As if summoned, a resounding shriek echoed through the woods.

Anora glanced up at Eleanor's voice and smiled serenely, shaking her head. “I will in a moment. Their progress is...unhurried.”

She made to return to her book, pausing for a moment as another series of screams echoed from the trees below.

“Maker’s blood, you’d think they’ve killed someone,” Eleanor said under her breath.

“Perhaps they have,” Anora shrugged, lifting her book again to her eyes. “Hopefully it’s one of Howe’s.”

A startled laugh burst from Eleanor’s lips. Anora’s mouth curved into a sly grin, her eyes darting upward, before she resumed her former posture, eyes scanning the pages before her.

Turning the page, she nodded to herself. “Plenty of time, yet.”

ii.

Sweat. Blood rushing in her ears, down her legs, twigs lashing at her face, tangles in her hair catching on the thorns of nearby brambles, bare feet bloodied and bruised by the earth. Aching lungs, burning breaths. Bared teeth and broken lips. Never too much, never enough.

Her pursuer was upon her; faster than she, sturdier than she, stronger than she, but not half as clever.

And this, in the end, is why she always won.

Wrists slender enough to snap. Skin unmarred and unweathered. Elegant fingers, palms free of callouses. Exposed slender throat, all too easy to bruise.

Fragile and fine. A twisted, smirking mouth the only betrayal of what lurked beneath.

She wore her mask, and she wore in splendidly.

Chase her, chase her as the hunter chases the stag, destroy the beauty that evades you, vanquish the graceful creature that flees from you, slaughter the sacred deer, cover your hands in her blood that you might be cleansed of your impurities. Your glory, her tragedy.

Fall into her trap and realize she hunted you all along.

A blade at his neck, razor sharp, on his throat as he inhaled, exhaled in a great laugh.

"I win."

"Well, terrific, we've lost the stag for good now."

"Good." Sile dropped the blade. "Not much for killing trophies, anyway."  
"Ah, my darling sister. Wouldn't kill a stag. Mounts men's heads on her mantle instead."  
"Men nearly always deserve it."  
"Should I be worried?"

"Maker, no. Without you I'd inherit the tyrna. Now that would be a disaster."

"More of a disaster than Cailan as king?"

"I heard that, you bloody lout." Cailan appeared behind him, and whacked him on the head.

"Treachery. Lock him away."

"Oh, no, he's probably right. Do you think Teagan would be interested?"

"Anora would murder you."

"Well. She could marry Teagan, couldn't she?"

Fergus stared at him. "A terrible king and a worse fiancee. Anora will be a long suffering woman."

"She'd rather marry you, I expect," Cailan shrugged.

"Who wouldn't?" Sile slung an arm around her brother's shoulders and murmured, conspiratorial, "The Orlesians whisper about the two of us, Fergus."

Cailan made a gurgling sound somewhere between a laugh and snort.

"Well, the inbreeding would explain how ugly they are," Fergus muttered.

Sile shoved him. "Celene is beautiful. And rather an awful person. My favorite kind, really."

Nathaniel burst through abruptly, preventing any retort. "The horses have run off."

Sile waved a dismissive hand. "They'll find their way back. Not all creatures are as terrible at navigating as you, my darling dear."

"We shouldn't have dismounted," Nathaniel muttered, his eyes shifting uncomfortably.

"They were cut up something awful," Cailan shrugged. "Path's too narrow. We were never going to catch the stag at that rate."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Nathaniel said, narrowing his eyes slightly, "but one --"

He thrust up a finger in the air. A collective groan erupted from his companions.

"Shut up," he hissed. "One, there is no path. Two, we've lost the bloody stag."

Cailan shrugged. "Ah, well, we had a good go of it."

"Do you care about literally nothing?" Nathaniel demanded.

"You know what they say, old boy," Cailan grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's the chase that matters."

Nathaniel glared at him. "Who? Who says that?"

The pained huffing of breath alerted them of Thomas's approach before they saw him, branches snapping heavy underfoot.

"Why?" he asked, heaving, doubled over, covered in dirt and mud. "Why would you do that?"

"We'd hoped to lose you," Fergus informed him.

Thomas fell to his knees and began to dry heave, the thick saliva of a dried mouth pooling on his lips.

"Andraste's blood," Nathaniel muttered, turning away.

Cailan was laughing, stooping over the younger Howe. "Good man. Drink."

He took the flask from his waist and held it to Thomas's lips. He eagerly grabbed it and tossed it back. Immediately spat it out, gagging.

"What the fuck is that?"

Cailan frowned down at the ground. "It should have been brandy."

Fergus grumbled something about it going to waste.

Thomas coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Say, where's Delilah gone?"

"She's right -" Nathaniel started. Stopped abruptly. Silence fell for the first time since setting out that morning as realization dawned over them. Turned to each other, the trees, upward as if she would quite literally materialize the sparse streaks of red and gold that cut through the canopy of trees.

In the dimming light, the blood drained from Nathaniel's face.

"Fuck."

iii.

It was nearly sunset when she fell behind.

She knew she should have stayed behind with Anora and the Antivan girl, she knew that, but that also would have meant the company of the adults in the evening, and that thought -- to sit through a feast and the superficial pleasantries it demanded without the aid of her siblings -- was unbearable.

Besides that, the truth was that Anora terrified her, not through any particular character flaw of hers, but the simple fact that she was beautiful and intelligent and well-read and was going to be queen one day to Cailan Theirin was enough to turn Delilah to stone around her. Her father said that she was Anora's better, because the Mac Tirs were of common blood, and Delilah had wanted to scream that she wished her father had been a farmer or cupboard maker or whatever it was the Mac Tirs did instead of him, arl that he was, but he would probably blame Síle and forbid her to speak to her again, and that would also be unbearable.

And anyway, it hadn't been her fault that the rest of the party had driven so far ahead of her, not really. She'd tripped on a tree root and fallen in the dirty creek, true, and her dress would be permanently ruined, for which she would pay dearly when she returned unless one of the teryns were in the room when her father saw her and he would have to laugh along with them for the sake of propriety, and then they would be his chief targets of annoyance and he would complain of them to her and her brothers later, the dress forgotten.

Maker, let one of the teryns be there.

She had no idea why everyone had gathered here, anyway, she would have much prefered they all go stay at Denerim, because her father was always in a better mood when King Maric was around, but he was off in Redcliffe visiting his brother in law, not the cute one, the one Síle called a snivelling toad on her less colorfully inventive days, which was how Delilah thought of him because she was truthfully too scandalized to adopt any of the Cousland siblings' choicer terms as her own.

Oh, she loved the Couslands, except at that exact moment in time, when she positively loathed Fergus, because his horse had come running through the stream at the exact moment that she was stumbling up, and she'd been splashed in the eyes and went stumbling around while her muddy vision cleared, and he'd hollered sorry over his shoulder but she'd heard him laughing, anyway, and she didn't blame him because Síle was ahead of him and going to catch the stag, and he hated it when Síle won, because she would gloat about it for the next year and a half, he said, which was how often she beat him, and which Síle said was how often he was stupid enough to challenge her.

She wished Nathaniel would challenge her, sometimes.

Father talked of marrying her off to Fergus Cousland, but that match would never work because Fergus was the type of boy whose horse splashed you in the eyes when you were foolishly flopping around in a muddy creek and then didn't help you up afterwards, and somehow the worst part in all of that seemed to be that he'd seen her foolishly flopping around in the creek and would definitely, definitely never want to marry her.

And in any case, really it was Thomas's fault that she hadn't caught up to them yet, because while she had been disgracing herself in the river, he'd barreled through and pushed her over, as one's brother was apt to do, and then they had all been out of sight so she'd had to follow their shouts, and she was a muddy wreck, and her clothes were wet, and she she was fairly sure she managed to wander through the same cluster of nettles on multiple occasions, and what was left of her muddy dress was torn and the only way she could distinguish between the splatters of dirt and blood was the sting.

The sun lowered on the outside world, which was only evident by the slightly warmer hue near the tops of the trees, which served as a canopy that blocked out the harshness of the Amaranthine sun. Perhaps it was pure foolishness that prevented her from being terrified at that moment; perhaps it was the singularity of her focus on seeking revenge on Thomas, which too fully consumed her for her to worry about the creatures of the night that her brothers and her father's men whispered about around fires with ale on their breath.

And then, gradually, as she continued to fight her way through the impossible tangle of flora that opposed her, a coolness set in that confirmed that night had fallen. Her vision was failing her at this point, squinting through the dimness of the forest, arms stretched out in front of her to aid her unsteady progress.

She didn’t know how long she continued this way, only that eventually, her arms pitched out in front of her reached into nothingness, her foot slid into the abyss, and she went crashing down into the unknown.

iv.

The first thing she was aware of was the pain.

In her head, her body -- she couldn’t feel her left leg.

Oh, Maker, let it be there, let it be there, let it --

Ah. Leg was still intact. That was good.

This she surmised by her groping left hand, stiff and swollen from dehydration and the chill of the forest at night; she could not verify with her eyes. It was black around her. Pitch black.

She was going to kill Nathaniel.

Not that it was his fault, of course. It wasn’t. Of all the party, he was probably the least responsible for this unfortunate turn of events.

Still, she felt that the blame really ought to fall to him, somehow.

Perhaps out of habit. It didn’t matter.

Thinking vengeful thoughts about her entirely innocent brother -- Thomas was entirely too stupid and sad to begrudge anything, even when he deserved it -- she hesitantly pushed herself up onto her arms.

Frightened? No. She ought to be, but she wasn’t. Not yet.

Years later, when she was but a villager in the shadow of the keep and the forest beyond it, she would shudder, and curse Nathaniel, often and loudly, and turn to her son and say, did I tell you about the time your bloody uncle left me to die in that forest?

This particular incident would not take on any great significance until she was far older and far wiser, when the world was darker and sadder, when her surviving friends were fewer. It was entirely eclipsed by the tales of Anora and Cailan’s various exploits, usually prompted by the desire to escape the monotony of Denerim, where they were the only ones of their class and age. One of these incidents was famous enough that even Brother Giavanni deemed it worthy of immortalizing in his volumes.

Later, Anora would come across this account in one of Fergus Cousland’s books after the restoration of Highever; she had dropped it, dropped to her knees, and buried her face in her hands, body wracked with sobs.

It was the only time Delilah ever saw her queen weep.

But that was nothing more than an unthinkable future at the moment, when the greatest pain Delilah had suffered was throbbing in her side and her greatest loss was of the feeling in her leg, which was becoming increasingly alarming.

She sank her nails into the dirt around her and dragged herself forward. There was little point, of course. Even if she were mobile, she had no idea where she was, and she couldn’t see a blasted thing.

She let out a self-pitying groan and dropped her face back into the dirt.

Maker, her throat was dry. She ran her tongue around her mouth. Also dry.

Well. Apparently this was just how she was going to die.

Damn you, Nathaniel. Now look what you’ve done.

 

It was then that she heard it, the unmistakable voice calling down to her, her head jerking upwards.

"Delilah, dear!" She’d have known her without looking up, the voice light, laughing, the lilting traces of an Orlesian accent. Sile. "What are you doing down there?"

"Taking a bloody rest," Delilah shouted back. Pain seared her dry throat. Her hand flew to her neck.

"Don't be cross. Nate has been going out of his mind, I promise you."

Delilah didn't believe that for a moment, but she begrudingly accepted the lie.

"Ho! We've got her!" Cailan came up beside Sile on top of the revine. "Nate, you can quit your sulking now. You've kept your skin another day."

"Are your father's servants paid to pretend you're clever?" Nathaniel asked dryly.

Cailan shrugged. "Oh, probably."

"Can you walk, love?"

"I'm fine," Delilah croaked, wincing. With more confidence than she felt, she shakily got to her feet.

She promptly fell back down, foiled by her numb leg.

"Nori isn't with you?" Sile asked.

"No," Delilah blinked.

“That’s odd,” Sile said. “I expected she’d have joined us by now.”

Nathaniel sat down, cautiously starting down the revine. "Perhaps she's decided to stay back this time."

Sile frowned and pursed her lips, but didn't say anything else.

Tactfully, no one mentioned that watching her best friend and future husband flirt with Sile Cousland might not be Anora's first choice of how to spend her Saturday afternoon.

"Hang tight, we're on our way," Cailan said, unmoving, watching Nathaniel's progress.

Delilah struggled to swallow; her mouth was dry, her tongue was swollen.

Ultimately, it was Nathaniel who carried Delilah up and over to their makeshift campsite, which consisted of a fire and more booze bottles than she would have thought possible for them to haul along if they hadn't always managed it.

"My throat," she rasped to Nathaniel.

"She needs water," Nathaniel said, with an urgency she probably would have found comical if she wasn't in excruciating pain.

"Here." Cailan held out a bottle.

Nathaniel stared blankly. "That's ale."

"That's all I have," Cailan told him, blinking.

"Won't ale just make it worse?"

"How could ale possibly make anything worse?"

"Give it here." Sile wove between them, snagging it from Cailan's outstretched hand. She made a face. "Maker, that's awful. Don't give her that."

"I know," Cailan said. "It was all the arl had."

"I am terribly sorry," Nathaniel said shortly, "that we are not up to your standards."

"Have you got anything?" Cailan asked.

She looked at him incredulously. "Of course I have."

Delilah let out something like a moan, still dangling in Nathaniel's arms; Sile disappeared for a moment, returning with a bottle in hand.

"Brandy," she grinned. "Antivan."

She held it up to Delilah's lips. She sputtered as it hit her lips, burning her mouth, her throat.

"How typical of the Couslands," Nathaniel grumbled, "to finance the foreigners --"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Nate, dear," Sile said lightly. Delilah signaled that she'd had enough. "I stole it."

Nathaniel grunted, but took the bottle as Sile passed it to him.

"Does anyone know where we are?" Delilah finally asked, testing her voice.

There was silence for a moment as they glanced around at each other.

"No worries, my darling girl," Cailan grinned at her. "We'll find our way back sure enough."

They were hopelessly lost, of course, and had nothing to eat and virtually no water provisions, but they were young and wild hearted and it didn't matter, because they were together and they were free. This is how she would always remember them: Sile dancing barefoot in her white corset shift around the fire, bottle in hand; Fergus with his boots off, his feet too close to the fire, his arms a pillow for his head, his eyes closed and a slow smile on his lips; Nathaniel going at a long piece of wood with his knife, carving only Maker knew what; Cailan's words tumbling over each other, hands animated, arms waving excitedly, eyes reflecting the flames in front of him, talking of some great legend or other, most of them involving either his ancestors or the Grey Wardens, to whom his father apparently had some connection; Thomas sulking because Sile's arms always ended up draped around Cailan's neck instead of his and supplying a running commentary about Cailan's inevitable arranged marriage to Anora Mac Tir, which never produced the sobering influence he hoped.

He was in the middle of one such tirade that night, in fact, asking Cailan when he thought it would be, which Cailan breezily replied he supposed it would be whenever he became king or a great hysteria began about continuing the Theirin bloodline, whichever came first.

"Some say," Thomas sniffed, "that the Landsmeet will elect Bryce Cousland instead."

"I wish they would," Cailan said, deathly serious.

Sile, her head in Cailan's lap, her hair fanned out around her, reached up a hand to swat him.

"What have I done to make you hate me so much?" she demanded.

"You'd still be the spare, love," Fergus said from where he was sprawled. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

"If they voted for you to succeed our father," Sile murmured, "Ferelden would fall to ruin inside of a year."

"That long?"

"Anyway," Cailan put in, waving his hand, "Anora was born for the throne. I pity anyone who would try to take it from her."

"If you think she needs you for the crown, you think entirely too much of yourself, my darling dear," Sile laughed. "She owned you the moment you met her, did she not? She has that affect on people. The Landsmeet would elect her in a second."

"Oh, I expect you're right," Cailan said brightly.

"She's still a commoner," Nathaniel said stiffly.

Delilah averted her eyes from him then and bit her lip.

"That's why --" Cailan started.

"Wait, do you smell that?" Fergus asked suddenly, his head turning.

No one spoke for a moment, sniffing.

"Ugh. Foul." Sile wrinkled her nose.

"Something dead," Cailan supplied, nodding.

"Where is it coming from?" Fergus asked, getting to his feet.

There was a rumbling, a sickening sound that was like a growl, a laugh, too wet to be either.

Cailan grabbed the piece of dead wood beside him, intended for the fire, and lit it as a torch, raising it above his head.

From around the fire came a sharp intake of breath, a stifled scream, a startled yelp.

It was standing over a carcass mutilated beyond all recognition, blood dripping from its mouth. It raised its head, deformed, distorted, ghoulish; a lipless mouth with broken and decaying teeth, flesh caught between them; bones protruding beneath its sickly skin, colorless and rotting like a corpse; holes where the nose should have been; eyes sickly, bloodshot, set too deep; a thick layer of tortured muscle the only true differentiation from the remains it preyed upon.

Eyes flashed in recognition. A scream, inhuman and piercing, tore from its throat.

"It saw us," Nathaniel whispered.

"You don't say?!" Thomas shrieked, voice cracked, high, hysterical.

Delilah's hand shot down to grip Sile's, her eyes bulging, her heart beating in her ears, and for the first time that night, she felt the sharp sting of terror.

"All right, all right, it's all right," Fergus was saying, spreading his hands, advancing towards it.

"Are you trying to bloody reason with it?" Nathaniel demanded, grabbing Fergus by the shoulder.

It issued another scream, seizing a blade from where it had been crouching. It began to advance towards them.

"I don't believe it," Cailan whispered, eyes alive with something not quite awe, not quite fear, akin to a cautious excitement.

"You know what this is?" Fergus looked at him frantically, sword drawn.

"Darkspawn," Cailan answered, almost reverently.

It was running at them now, albeit gracelessly, sword in raised hand, a growl that sounded like a garbled battle cry in its mouth. 

Delilah screamed. Sile's breath hot against her neck, her voice low by her ear. "Can you climb?"

Delilah lunged towards the nearest tree, stumbled, cried out in pain as she reached out for the trunk, her bad leg buckling under her.

"Delilah." Nathaniel materialized beside her suddenly, his eyes wide with panic, his voice controlled with great effort. "I'll boost you up. Hurry. Hurry."  
Another shriek. No, a wail. Anguished.  
Delilah turned her head, half expecting to see poor dear Thomas dismembered, terror gripping at her.

And exhaled rapidly, feeling lighter than she believed she ever had in her life, dizzily falling back against Nathaniel, an uncontrollable bout of giggling bubbling up through her lips.

The creature had fallen to the side, an arrow through its chest, head severed, tongue lolling grotesquely from the lipless mouth, a dark bloody liquid pooling around it in the firelight.

Anora stood over it, blood still dripping from the sword in her right hand, a bow across her back. She stared down at it expressionlessly, mouth closed, eyes slowly blinking. No one spoke, all eyes fixed on their dead attacker, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the slightly deranged sound of Delilah's fit.

Anora let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders rising and falling, and stuck her blade into the ground, walking wordlessly over to the fire and stooping to pick up the nearest liquor bottle. She took a drink without examining it, instantly grimaced, and stifled a choking sound, collecting herself; took in a deep breath, threw her head back, and finished it off in long uninterrupted swigs.

She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, gasping for air, panting.

"This is shit brandy," she said, and smashed the bottle at her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm gonna be straight, I didn't proofread this at all, I just want to send it out into the universe and never think of it again lol  
> Next time we're finally gonna be in the DA:O timeline. Thanks for enduring another semi-prologue <3

**Author's Note:**

> (This is Part I in Though The Heavens Fall and follows the pre-blight/Fifth Blight timeline with the exception of the flash forward prologue).
> 
> I'm a writer by trade so any and all constructive criticism and feedback is greatly appreciated on so, so many levels. Thank you for bearing with me on this self indulgent ride, my loves <3


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